


Heal Me

by pinknamjoon



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Napoleon is a Little Shit, but illya loves him anyways, illya is worried after napoleon is tortured, napoleon has big bottom energy, napoleon is irresponsible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 18:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15869673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinknamjoon/pseuds/pinknamjoon
Summary: Illya watches a man be tortured in the same way Napoleon was, and he doesn't like it at all. Plus, he knows Napoleon is awful at taking care of himself.





	Heal Me

**Author's Note:**

> me? posting twice within the span of twenty four hours? inconceivable! 
> 
> this is short and awful i'm sorry i wrote it at 1:30 in the morning.

Illya looked over at Napoleon as the other man winced and massaged his neck, and took another sip of his whiskey. 

Napoleon wasn't okay. Both of them knew it, and yet, neither of them said anything. Illya could barely think of anything else besides the screams of the man who sat in Solo's place in that chair, electric currents flowing through his body. 

Illya was horrified when he first started up the machine. He had whipped his head to Solo, eyes examining the other man, wondering how the hell he was conscious, let alone standing. He had beat himself up for not coming sooner, not rescuing the American earlier. 

The worry has surprised Illya above everything else. Somehow, in the span of a few whirlwind days, the idiotic Napoleon Solo had managed to get Illya to care about him. Sure, he liked Gaby. She was a nice girl, full of spirit. He liked that. But she didn't have the chiseled bone structure of a Greek God, didn't wear tight suits that hugged all the right places, didn't know how to pick any lock with ease, didn't have the delicate curl that sat just right on her forehead. She wasn't Napoleon. 

Gaby has followed Waverly out, politely declining a drink with the two spies. 

"I've had enough of you two. I'm getting my own room." She had laughed, before she spun on her heel and left Illya and Napoleon alone on the rooftop, looking over Rome. 

"You alright over there cowboy?" Illya asked, having enough of Napoleon desperately trying to get the pain out of his shoulders. 

"Just peachy." He grunted. 

Illya paused for a beat, taking other sip of alcohol. 

"Are you sure? Because you look like you could use some help." 

Napoleon glared at him. 

"I won't snap your neck. We are coworkers now, yes? And I promise I won't go too low." 

"Now Peril, that's no fun!" Solo winked, and the Russian could feel his cheeks getting redder. 

"Do you want my help or not?" Illya rolled his eyes, feigning disinterest. 

Napoleon nodded, and Illya got up to stand behind the chair the other man was sitting in. He started massaging Solo's shoulders, but quickly stopped, getting distracted by a large red welt on each of the brunette's temples. 

"God Solo, did you treat that at all? It could get infected, you idiot." Illya told him, examining the injury. 

"I didn't know you cared." He said, smirking. 

Illya looked Napoleon in the eyes, and saw fear. 

"Are they from that man who tortured you?" He tried to force the concern and worry out of his voice, lest Napoleon hear it. He'd never hear the end of it. 

"Yeah." He responded, breaking eye  
contact, looking everywhere but Illya. 

"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner. If I had known-" 

"Peril, there's no way you could have known. I'm just glad you came for me at all." Napoleon said, meeting his eyes again. Illya looked at him for a moment, seeing nothing but the truth in the other man's face. 

He stood up, and gestured for Solo to follow him back into the hotel. "Come. Let me disinfect your wound. It's the least I can do." 

"We have perfectly good alcohol right here." Napoleon said, smiling while pointing at the whiskey. 

"As much as you wish it was, whiskey is not medicinal." Illya told him, rolling his eyes. 

They walked side by side back down to Napoleon's hotel room, the American's hand brushing up against his. Every time their skin touched, Illya felt like he was on fire. He realized he had just signed himself up for touching Napoleon's face, and he cursed his own stupidity. 

As it turns out, his partner did in fact own a first aid kit, he just decided he didn't need it, and it lay neglected at the bottom of his suitcase. Illya fought the urge to roll his eyes again. He found himself doing that far too often when it came to Napoleon. 

He poured rubbing alcohol onto a cotton swab, and put a finger under the shorter man's jaw, and angled his head so the first injury was facing him. He dabbed the cotton over the broken skin lightly, trying not to hurt Napoleon. He did the same on the other side, and the other man just grimaced slightly. 

"There. All done." Illya said, throwing out the cotton swab. 

"You haven't kissed it better yet." Napoleon whined. 

Illya stared at him blankly, and indulged himself in an eye roll. Napoleon didn't mean it. He couldn't. He probably just had too many glasses of whiskey. 

"I think the sides of your face will heal just fine." 

"I didn't mean my temples." 

This man truly would be the death of him. His plump lips looked absolutely sinful, and somehow, Napoleon knew it. 

Acting on impulse, Illya surged forward, kissing Napoleon with all he had. He nearly moaned when the American started kissing him back just as urgently, his tongue wanting and needy. Illya slid his hand down to the other man's ass, and Napoleon whined into his lips. 

Illya broke away, delighting in how Napoleon immediately started trying to kiss him again. He stopped, however, when Illya leaned down and kissed up his jawline and whispered "I'll take top." into his ear. 

Napoleon smirked, and started leading Illya to his bed, his hands on the Russian's waist. 

"I'll take bottom."

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on tumblr! @ambersdyke


End file.
